


No Exit

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-07
Updated: 2007-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley and Faith revisit the events of "Five by Five" three years afterwards. Thanks to my beta-readers:  Sel, Jessica, and Laura. ***Please comment -- it means the world to me...</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Exit

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

No Exit

I.

She is sitting on the windowsill waiting for her cue, for the moment when the man tied to a wooden chair in the middle of the room bows his head into his chest, his upper body slouching as far as the bonds will allow. 

As she stares at the swollen skin below his left eye, she sucks down what remains of her cigarette, holding onto it long enough so that the hot ashes burn the skin between her fingers.

Her hand trembles slightly.

It’s time for Act Two.

II. 

“C’mon champ,” she shouts as she jumps onto his lap, straddling him. 

She pauses to watch him throw his head back and make a muffled noise that would probably be a scream if it weren’t for the fact that his mouth is stuffed with her underwear.

“We’ve just started this,” she pouts, bouncing slightly. “Don’t even think of turning your lights out on me. That would be so rude of you, Wes, after all the stuff I’ve planned for us. Tell you what, stay with the program and I’ll even let you pick this time.” She wiggles her right hand in front of his face and begins to count off the possibilities on her fingers. “Let’s see. There’s cutting, burning…” She stops suddenly, grabs his throat, and smiles quizzically at him as she squeezes. “Or, we can make it like a guessing game. Which one’s this, Wes?” Releasing his neck, she removes her underwear from his mouth and brushes the crotch, wet from his saliva and her own juices, against his nose. For a few moments his chest pumps against her as he sucks in huge gulps of air. She shrugs. “Guess you need to breathe to scream, huh?”

What happens next is right out of a bad movie. 

He stares at her coldly, spitting out words so stilted and toneless he must have cribbed them from a B-grade gangster flick. “Go ahead. Kill me. But remember this. I’m your watcher. I know who and what you are. You are a fucking piece of shit, Faith. You always were, always will be.” 

She’s heard it before, but she still can’t stop the façade from cracking, as it always does whenever they play at this. His thigh twitches sharply beneath her, like he’s trying to jump-start whatever has stalled within her. She closes her eyes. Payback on the installment plan is an even bigger bitch. It’s time for Act Three.

 

III.

In the kitchen she takes a bottle out of the trash, wraps it in a plastic bag (she’s so neat these days it almost kills her), and breaks it against the metal edge of the counter. She fishes out a single glass shard and holds it in front of her as she walks back into the living room. Into a past he won’t let her walk out of until she’s dug her fingers into the old wounds to see if they still can bleed. 

She undoes the buttons of his shirt and peels the material away from his sweat-soaked chest. It’s one of the few revisions he allows her, a concession to the rising price of silk. When she falters on her knees he whispers her own directions to her: “Three vertical slices. Each slightly longer than the previous one.”

He told her once that he is building a map of cuts and bruises so he can find his way back to the moment when he really snapped. That he needs her to retrace the paths she once carved, tracks which have since faded into the underbrush of his skin. She needs to get it right just one time, so that it will really be the last time. He’s been telling her this for months now. 

After three years in prison, she knows better than to believe there is redemption in repetition anymore. 

IV.

The fourth act opens with her crouching in a sea of glass fragments specked with his blood. It will be days before she’ll be able to walk barefoot in here again, she thinks offhandedly. 

When she goes for her lighter, she notices the way his head is jerking to the right, directing her line of vision to the far corner of the room where a can of gasoline rests on a neatly folded towel. 

Bastard. He’s added to the script again and she is really sobbing now, shouting “Shit” and “No, no,” even as she walks toward the spot. 

“Just do it,” he pleads in the space between the lines in which he’s supposed to be begging for his life. 

She opens the can and swings it in narrow arcs so that the fluid spurts like come into the air and lands on his shirt and in her hair. It occurs to her then that she can end all of this -- really finish the script by doing what she didn't have a chance to do that night, years ago. The thought sends her over the edge, and she is crying, on her knees, clutching the can. She hears the sound of fabric tearing as he breaks through the nylon stockings that bind his wrists together. He's with her now, on the ground, stroking her gasoline-soaked hair. 

"I'm sorry!" She wails. And he continues to soothe her, brushing his thumbs over her brows as she fumbles with the buttons on his pants. "Hush," he says, "don't worry. We'll get it right the next time." But messing this one up isn't what she's apologizing for. It's for the first time, when she needed to stick a knife into something again to find out if she really meant it. And when she found that in fact she did, she wanted to fuck things up so badly they would have to put her down. She didn't count on this, on him, on this record scratch of a moment she would be forced to repeat over and over. 

V.

Act Five is the respite of bodies in hell. Her act, where he is on his back and she is performing the sloppiest blowjob of her life -- all smacking sounds and slurps, teeth grazing against him, and in the back of her mind she knows she is hurting him a little bit. Which doesn’t matter here, now, when they are as normal as they’ll ever be. 

Making a noise that is somewhere between a roar and a sob, he comes, spilling himself into her mouth. She is still relaxing her throat muscles to swallow his copious ejaculations and he is still shaking and moaning softly when he pushes her down with a brutality that always surprises her. Before she can get her bearings, his hands are beneath her skirt, pulling her thighs apart so that he can really see her, unimpeded by the underwear she lost in Act One, and circle her clitoris with his thumb as he inserts two fingers inside her cunt. “Harder…deeper…” she growls as she thrusts her hips back and forth, fucking his hand. When she feels the sharp edge of a jagged fingernail accidentally scratch against something deep inside her, she silently prays to a god she hopes isn’t looking that she’ll bleed.

The moment he is hard again, there is a fight over who gets to be on top. Slayer strength wins out in the end, and soon she is lowering herself none too gently onto his erection. She rides him like that and tweaks his nipples for a few agonizingly slow thrusts before crossing her right leg over his chest so she can twist her body around until her back is facing him. When her fingers find that spot between his balls and his ass, he starts whimpering words she didn’t even know were in his vocabulary, and she wonders if they might be able to stay like this. To make this moment the beginning of a sequel. Or rather, a different kind of past to repeat; one where he takes her back to his room at the Hyperion the night before her return to Sunnydale. A past in which she leaves with nether lips so swollen that she is still able to feel him inside her when the smoke clears and she’s still standing, burnt pure as the driven snow over Hiroshima. She’ll go back to that payphone in the suburbs and whisper one word into the receiver: “Stay.” And know that he’ll know without asking that she really means “I’m coming back.” 

There is a little chagrin in realizing that she is now a closet romantic. Just thinking about it causes her muscles to tighten their hold on that piece of him lodged inside her. From below, she feels his body’s sharp incline as he raises himself on his arms, using them for leverage so he can lift his hips to meet her furious rhythms. When he brings his forehead to rest on her back, in the space between her shoulder blades, she knows that this may be as close as they’ll ever get. To a kind of fucking that could be as mindless as forgiveness. 

She chases her insistent need to get off and then do it again before her time runs out, and she’ll have to slice him open, bruise him just enough to get anywhere near this again. Gracelessly, she reaches back and pulls his arms from beneath him, pressing one hand against her breast and the other between her thighs. With her eyes closed, she waits for his fingers to bring her toward something stronger than the need for mercy.

“Don’t come yet,” she orders before a piece of her shatters and she grabs onto his legs to ride out the shock waves. When she recovers, she feels him struggle with the attempt to stave off his impending orgasm as her own builds again – and this time, they go over the cliff together without a parachute, their bodies suspended in the warm air of a breath that is held too long. 

 

Epilogue

The room smells of sex and gasoline. Lying beside the now empty chair, she thinks about declaring bankruptcy on whatever debt she still owes him and the rest of them -- about taking up a waitress job so that she can earn enough money to buy a train ticket to New York. She’ll find a place to squat in, change her name, and always, always go to bed before sundown. 

A finger moves along the rough curvature of her hipbone. “Shall we clean up?” He asks. 

She turns on her side and for a moment just stares at the man he is when his hair is mussed up and he isn’t wearing glasses or anything else.

“Stay” she says, looking past him now towards the open window that brings in light from a world that will wake up on fire one of these days.


End file.
